


The Icy Winds of Winter

by originalanon



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Also Roach is there???, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Feeding, Geralt is a chubby chaser lmao, Kink Discovery, M/M, Overeating, Size Kink, Stuffing, Weight Gain, not by a lot tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originalanon/pseuds/originalanon
Summary: "He wasn’t like Yennefer. She was covered in soft, pliable flesh that padded her bones and features nicely, and made great handholds for him when they did happen to cross paths, rare as it was nowadays.In fact, if Geralt had to wager a guess, he’d bet that Jaskier’s intolerance to the cold had something to do with the lack of meat on his bones. It he’d just put on a little weight, Geralt thought, he’d no longer complain about every stiff wind that cut through him, or leave (unintentional) bruises on the witcher overnight. As an added bonus, he’d look even cuter."---Or, Geralt thinks Jaskier needs to put on a few pounds or freeze to death, and things take a turn for the strange.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 501
Collections: Good Relationship Etiquette (familial included) - or Good BDSM Etiquette - or Good Relationship and BDSM Etiquette





	The Icy Winds of Winter

**Author's Note:**

> Yo, whaddup, I played the Witcher 3, watched the Netflix series, and started reading the books, and all I wanna do is read Geralt/Jaskier, but there's no stuffing so yeah
> 
> Anyway, it's 2AM for me so enjoy

The ride between them had been long, quiet, and most of all, chilly. 

The crisp air of late autumn did not affect the witcher, who had bundled himself up in a thick wool doublet, with fur-topped boots and thick pants to match. Or rather, they didn’t. He wouldn’t be winning the heart of any fair maiden with even a shred of a sense of fashion, but he’d be warm.

He’d be warm, unlike the scrawny, shivering bard who rode alongside him on a gray mare who appeared as though she’d collapse at any second under her rider.

Jaskier was by no means heavy -- quite the opposite in fact. During their treks through wide-open mountainsides, Geralt half-worried that a strong wind would carry the fleet-footed minstrel away. Either that, or a particularly large bird, mistaking him for a hare. No, if his horse was going to collapse, it would have to be because she had been sold to him for a price that suggested she was only useful from this point on as glue and what little meat clung to her bones.

_ “The harpies descended, _

_ Grinning wi-with glee, _

_ But then rose the Witcher, _

_ Who… uh… did… something… with… with glee?” _

“You rhymed ‘glee’ with ‘glee,’” Geralt murmured harshly, though the slightly different inflection of his voice, to the trained ear, betrayed his true feelings. Jaskier just so happened to be attuned to these changes.

“I know, I know…” he said, teeth chattering. “I just… I can’t _possibly_ _think_ about rhyming when I can’t even feel my own feet.”

“I told you to wear something warmer.” 

It was no surprise to Geralt that his friend was freezing. He wore one of his brightly colored jerkins (this one was gold and green,) with silken pants to match. No doubt the lightness of the fabric provided little to no resistance to the elements. 

Jaskier planted his hands on his hipbones. “And  _ I _ asked  _ you _ to let us stay the night in the last town, but, oh, what was it you said?” He tapped his lip and scrunched up his face as he pretended to struggle to remember. 

“Oh, that’s right! ‘We’ll make better time if we go on. Baths and warm beds and good food be damned! I’m a mighty witcher who needs no comforts of man! Bah!’” he said, doing his best to imitate Geralt’s voice. It wasn’t very good.

Still, it managed to wring a slight crack of a smile from the witcher. It was gone in a flash, like a flame in a rainstorm, but Jaskier had just managed to catch it.

“They had no bath at that inn, and even if they did, the beds were too small for my liking. I’d end up rolling over on you and breaking your ribcage,” he said. Jaskier rolled his eyes in response, and slung his loot back over his back. There was no use in playing if he couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers.

“Yes, but it’d be better than having icicles clinging to my ribcage right now,” he said. He would have taken nearly being crushed by the much larger man over this cold any day. Hell, he’d take it over most things anyway, and he was certain Geralt would as well.

“It’s not even that cold.”

“Says the man with enough hair on him to make a bear look balding!” Jaskier shouted. Geralt winced in response, but was thankful that they were far enough away from civilization for anyone but the wolves howling at the rising moon to hear. His companion began rubbing his upper arms in an attempt to warm himself up during the temperature drop. “Oh, don’t be so embarrassed. I’ve seen  _ all _ of it, and you, sir, could at least shave some of it off and give some to me.”

It was true. Geralt was positive Jaskier had seen every nook and cranny of him ever since the incident with the dragon. A few weeks after the fact, he had felt particularly guilty about his wish for the bard to be taken off his hands, and had spent three days and four nights tracking him down. The makeup was average, but the confession of feelings that came spilling from the bard (and, one might say, mutual ones came dripping piece by piece out of the witcher as well) and the following makeup sex was spectactular. 

Of course, things hadn’t ended there, and gods were they both glad for that. There was the time in the stable they had been forced to sleep in when all the rooms in the inn were booked, and then the time in the big field of wheat they had been passing when some teasing got a little too risque. 

And the countless,  _ countless _ times in the camps they had made during their stints between settlements, of course. Truly, they had found something unique in the companionship of the other.

However, one thing Geralt in particular found unique and, admittedly  _ annoying _ about sleeping with the bard was the utter discomfort sharing a bed with him caused after the show had ended. The best thing he could compare it to was wrestling with a necrophage. Jaskier was all lanky limbs and sinew, and the sharp edges of his appendages made it difficult for the witcher to get comfortable while entwining himself in him for the night. His sharp hipbones in particular tended to stab into his side, and more than once he had awoken to find slight red marks on his chest from where Jaskier’s elbows had pressed against him all night.

He wasn’t like Yennefer. She was covered in soft, pliable flesh that padded her bones and features nicely, and made great handholds for him when they did happen to cross paths, rare as it was nowadays. 

In fact, if Geralt had to wager a guess, he’d bet that Jaskier’s intolerance to the cold had something to do with the lack of meat on his bones. It he’d just put on a little weight, Geralt thought, he’d no longer complain about every stiff wind that cut through him, or leave (unintentional) bruises on the witcher overnight. As an added bonus, he’d look even cuter.

Geralt blinked. Cuter? Did his subconscious really just say that? Did his subconscious  _ really _ just conjure up an image of a slightly rounder, chubbier Jaskier, soft all over? 

Most importantly, did he just  _ like _ that idea?

“Geralt? Geralt, do I have something on my face again? Don’t just stare, tell me where it is, because I can’t feel it.” The witcher had been so enraptured in his own thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed that he had been staring at Jaskier for the past five minutes. He shook his thoughts away.

“No, you don’t. Sorry,” he said, then looked straight ahead. In the distance, he could see the last strands of sunlight begin to dip below a hill. He pulled on Roach’s reigns as they crossed through a thick bit of trees, slowing her to a trot and then guiding her off the road. “We should set up camp before it gets any darker.”

Jaskier sighed in relief, bringing his struggling mare over to where Geralt was tying Roach. “Thank the stars above. I could do with a warm fire and a good hare.”

Geralt glanced over his shoulder as Jaskier tied his horse down, and harrumphed in his typical fashion.  _ Or two… or three… _

\-------------

Night fell quickly after that. Jaskier had been no help in building a fire, as the sky grew too dark too quickly for him to find any dry wood. He had sat in the dark, shaking and shuddering under a wool blanket while Geralt scoured the area with his enhanced senses for firewood.

Soon enough, though, they both sat beside a roaring fire, piled up on either side with rocks and mud to keep it from growing out of control. As Geralt stared at the embers rising up and disappearing into the night sky, he couldn’t help but focus in to the noises Jaskier made as he ate.

No hares were to be found, but a few fat squirrels who were running behind on their winter preparations had stumbled into the edge of their camp after they began setting up the tent. Geralt made quick work of them, and once the fire was going, they had cooked up quite nicely. He only wished he had some broth or stock to make a stew out of them in, that way he could make them last a little longer.

Jaskier certainly didn’t mind, though. He had just wanted something to warm him up from the inside. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and was voraciously chomping down on a tiny seared thigh. He then proceeded to stick the bone in his mouth, and slurp the remaining meat off. Once it was clean, the bard broke it with little effort, and proceeded to suck the marrow out of it. All the wet slurping, all the breathless little gasps when he came up for air from his meal, all the half-subdued moans of a well-cooked meal--

“Goddamn, Jaskier,” Geralt finally said when the bard went in for one of tiny bits of breast meat with his hands. “You’re eating like a ghoul on a battlefield.”

Jaskier’s cheeks were already red from the cold air, but now they grew redder. He swallowed thickly, and wiped away the greasy fat from his lips. “Mm… sorry, sorry. I’m just incredibly hungry,” he said. He went back to eating, but slowed down, now using a mite more manners than before. 

As he took a swig from his canteen (which had been warming up by the fire to warm the water inside,) he noticed that Geralt hadn’t taken his squirrels off the spit. 

“Uh… Geralt?”

“Mm?”

“Aren’t you going to eat? They’ll turn into a squirrel-cicle if you leave it there for much longer,” Jaskier asked as he motioned to the two crisp little bodies above the fire. 

Geralt let out a noncommittal grunt. “I ate in town,” he said. In truth, he  _ had _ eaten in the last town, but it was nothing more than a honeyed apple. He wasn’t exactly starving -- with his metabolism, he could easily wait until breakfast -- but something in him desperately wanted to see how Jaskier’d react.

Jaskier sighed, and shrugged. Sometimes he could argue with the witcher, but this was not one of those times. It was late and his back was getting cold from not being near enough to the fire and the heavy warmth of a full stomach was starting to drag him down into unconsciousness. He tossed aside the bones of the second squirrel, and muffled a belch into his fist. 

He began reaching for his lute case. “Well, that was lovely, but I do believe I’m satisfied--”

“No,” came the sudden, sharp reply that caused Jaskier to drop his lute and even made Geralt himself jump. He hadn’t expected that to come out of him. He cleared his throat. “I mean… no,” he said again, softening his tone.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “...What do you mean?”

They say witchers have no emotions -- not a single shred of humanity left in them; that it had been all stripped away and filled with nothing more than a lust for blood and gold. Jaskier had believed that to be bullshit, and had had enough experiences with Geralt to back up his claim. He had seen him enraged, hurt, broken, lonely, and, his personal favorite, content and loving. But the one emotion he had never seen from the witcher, the one that still eluded him to that very day, was embarrassment.

Until now. 

Geralt rubbed the back of his neck nervously, tossing his white locks to the side to do so. He had suddenly became deeply intrigued by something far off in the woods, staring at nothing rather than meeting that piercing blue gaze. 

“I… I was thinking earlier, when you were complaining about the cold…” he murmured, finally managing to toss a glance Jaskier’s way. He instantly regretted it, as the bard had reclined back against a log, hand contently resting on his middle. It was no longer so concave that Geralt was afraid he’d snap in half. Instead, it was just the tiniest bit rounded out. It was so miniscule that the witcher was sure he wouldn’t have even spotted it if Jaskier had been standing up straight. 

“Yes?” 

“...Perhaps it would… it would do you some good to put a little meat on your bones. Plump up a bit.”

There was a tense silence between them, only intensified by the howling wind far above them, blocked off to them by a small cliff to one side, and some thick trees to the other. Jaskier’s face was unreadable to Geralt, but Geralt’s face was flush with shame to Jaskier. 

Finally, the bard cracked a grin that spread from ear to ear.

“I can’t believe it,” he said, shaking his head a little. “Geralt of Rivia… master witcher…  _ is a chubby chaser! _ ”

Geralt immediately snapped up straight, all traces of his embarrassment vanishing. “I didn’t say that,” he growled back threateningly. Jaskier wasn’t deterred.

“A  _ chubby chaser  _ of all things! Gods, I thought you were going to say that you wished to retire and become a bard yourself with the way you were acting!” he said, sitting up on the log.

“This is serious. I don’t want to watch you freeze to death because you’re a scarecrow.”

Jaskier threw a leg up on the log, still giggling. “Oh, don’t lie,” he said, “you’re not very good at it. You want a little bit to hold on to, hmm?”

A roll of the eyes was his response. “...I will admit, it would be  _ nice _ to not wake up sore because you can’t keep those pikes you call hips on your side of the cot,” he said, sneering at Jaskier. Once again, the bard seemed unaffected.

“Ooh, I  _ knew  _ it. So, how much are we talking?” he asked.

“...What?”

Jaskier stood up, and balanced himself on the log. He stuck his arms on his hips, and twisted around to give Geralt a good look at his frame. “Weight. How much are we talking? Forty, fifty pounds?”

Geralt’s heart nearly jumped out of his chest.  _ Fifty pounds? Surely he couldn’t be serious.  _ “...I was just thinking maybe ten, or fifteen if that’s still not enough. Just enough to keep you insulated.” 

Jaskier waved a hand dismissively. “Ahh, you’ll want to go up, I just know it,” he said, then pulled on the hem of his jerkin, stretching it down a bit.

“I don’t want you struggling to keep up behind me. Besides, I don’t think that horse of yours is going to be able to pack anymore than that,” he said, motioning to the sleeping mare.

Another wave of the hand. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” he said nonchalantly.

Geralt blinked. “You seem… oddly okay with this. I would think for one with as big of an ego as you, you’d be a little more concerned over your image.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to become embarrassed. “...You wouldn’t  _ believe _ what some noblewomen are into. Instead of giving their scraps to the needy, some of them like to watch their ‘entertainers of the week’ try to fit it all down. Believe me, I’ve busted more than a few pairs of trousers in my days.”

Geralt’s eyes drifted lazily down to Jaskier’s waist again. He couldn’t imagine it sticking out any further past his pelvis, let alone so swollen and bloated with rich, heavy leftovers that his double-buttoned trousers would strain against it. “...And you enjoyed that?” he asked, still not taking his eyes off the bard’s belly.

Jaskier shrugged. “Not really, but it was free food and good sex. I was a young bard. You do the math.” He then reached over and grabbed the remaining spit off of the fire, being careful not to burn his fingers. Geralt was too busy doing the math (and  _ loving _ the images of the results that popped into his head) to notice at first what he was doing, but when he did, he spoke up.

“What are you doing?” 

Jaskier slid the first squirrel off the spit, and began to pull of one of its legs. “Did you just blackout the entirety of our conversation? I’m going to stuff myself silly.” He began to suck the meat off the first haunch. 

Geralt found himself wincing in pleasure at the little noises coming from Jaskier as he resumed eating, these ones far more pronounced than before. “No, but didn’t you just say--”

“I didn’t like doing it  _ for them _ . Too much ‘ooh, the little piggy this and little piggy that’ for my liking. Now, for you…” The bard grinned. “For you, master witcher, I’d happily succumb to gluttony.”

That was the nail in the coffin for Geralt’s half of the conversation. He could now only sit back and watch in guilty pleasure as the beautiful bard before him messily managed to cram another squirrel down his gullet. The entire time, Jaskier continued to let out breathless gasps and managed to conceal small burps into his fist. When the third squirrel was gone, he sat back, and took a long, hard swig from his canteen, gasping for breath when he pulled away.

Geralt could keep his silent vigil no longer. “How do you feel?” he asked as Jaskier tossed the bones into the pile with the others. 

His shirt buttons were now pressing into his belly, slightly straining against the pressure from within. “Not… not  _ stuffed _ , but certainly overfull,” he said. He was teetering on the familiar edge of being pleasantly and uncomfortably full. This had been his favorite stage of the sessions with that noblewoman in northern Novigrad so long ago.

Well, this, and being immobile from the amount stuffed into him that all he could do was lay back and let her ride him all the way home. It was only now that he realized that perhaps that was what Geralt would do to him this night.

Speaking of the witcher, he noticed he was staring at his belly, pooching out a little against his shirt. Geralt nodded. “Do you think you can manage the other one?” he asked.

Jaskier scoffed, making himself more comfortable against his log as he prepared himself for the next one. “You may want to get your crossbow back out, dear. You’re going to need to go back out hunting if you wish to see me  _ truly _ full.”

Geralt stood, and for one fearful moment, Jaskier thought he’d leave him alone, too full to run far from any danger, in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere, all to go back out hunting to bring him back more food. Thankfully, Geralt had more sense than that, and instead made his way over to Roach and began digging through her saddlebag. 

He returned a few moments later with a carefully wrapped loaf of bread, a tall bottle of some spirits they had picked up in Velen, and two small burlap bags. Geralt sat everything down on the log Jaskier was resting against, and made his way back over to his side of the fire.

Jaskier peeked inside the bags, and gulped a bit nervously when he spied what was there. In one was two thick slabs of salted pork, each about as big as his hand. He could smell the heavy salt that had been used to preserve them the moment he opened it. In the other was a mix of dried berries, nuts, and fruits. It was quite a bit.

“Aren’t these our rations?” Jaskier finally asked after a few moments. “Shouldn’t we… y’know, save these?”

“We can get some more in the next town. They’ll go stale before then.”

The bard looked to all the food now, including the fourth squirrel that he had yet to even start on. He picked it off of the spit, and tore into it, feeling a miniscule cramp run across the surface of his stomach, as if the organ were trying to tell him that he was full and truly didn’t need anymore. 

He ignored it, and began to eat once again, this time under the watchful eye of the witcher across the fire.

\------

_ “Oh. Oh, gods above…” _

The pathetic moan that escaped Jaskier’s lips sent shivers down Geralt’s spine and blood between his legs. He had sat, patiently, across from him companion, watching him manage to finish off the last squirrel, the bread, and one and a half pieces of salted pork, taking long swigs from the Cintran ale until about half of the bottle was gone. He began to sip on it once again, as though it were the only thing that could cure his pain.

It wasn’t particularly strong, but it provided a warm little hum in the back of his mind that made him feel giddy and pleasant. However, ‘giddy and pleasant’ wouldn’t be enough to quell the pain throbbing from his middle. It was like he’d swallowed a boulder or a bag of plaster. It was this big, warm weight on his middle that was quick to fight against any movement. He lazily rubbed at its sides, head thrown back as he tried to coax a belch out.

While Jaskier felt as though he’d swallowed a whole pumpkin and then some, Geralt watched as the bard moaned and groaned over a belly that jutted out only four or five inches from his ribs at best. He had long since unbuttoned his top, letting it hang loosely at his sides and giving the witcher a better view of what was happening. 

Geralt watched as the pale flesh of Jaskier’s belly heaved up and down as he struggled to draw breath in. It had to be pushing up on his lungs, he realized, and he wanted nothing more than to smash his mouth against the bard’s as he struggled and gasped. However, he used that superhuman willpower that had been instilled in him to restrain himself. He wanted to see what he’d do.

There came a deep rumble from somewhere. Geralt’s enhanced hearing picked up on the gurgling and sloshing coming from inside Jaskier before the little burp and hiccup reached his throat. He sat back up once it had passed, and a slight wave of nausea hit him.

“...Oh, fuck, Geralt…” he murmured, eyes a little wet from the pain on his sides, tugged and stretched tight like a drum over his little balloon of a belly. Another hiccup racked his body. “...I might be sick…”

Geralt was up in an instant, no longer interested in watching the bard writhe around on the ground. He got down on his knees next to Jaskier, and took him by the hand. He gave it a protective squeeze. Jaskier gave a half-lucid, debauched little smile.

“You’ll be okay,” he said. “Can I… Do you want me to… uh…” Geralt’s words seemed caught in his throat for the second time that evening. He sheepishly pointed to Jaskier’s stomach.

The food coma was starting to set in, but Jaskier somehow made sense of what he was being asked. He nodded, letting his head fall back on the log as he slipped down onto his back. “Yes, please.”

Geralt’s head felt foggy, and he suddenly became uncomfortably aware of all the tiniest movements he made. Very cautiously, he placed a hand on the curve of Jaskier’s stomach.

It was hot beneath his hand -- a stark contrast to the icy wind that whirled above them -- and every so often he could feel a little movement beneath his palm as things stirred inside quietly. Something below, just past Jaskier’s strained pants buttons, began to stir as well.

When Geralt went still on him, Jaskier arched his back, shoving his sore and aching belly against the heavy calloused palm that covered most of its surface. The pressure made a small moan of relief escape, and the bard’s pants suddenly felt much tighter for different, non-food related reasons. He looked up to Geralt with half-lidded eyes.

“...If you’ll hand me those berries…” he said, motioning loosely towards the still untouched bag of trail mix. 

Geralt looked down to his friend-slash-lover. He looked packed to the brim from where he was sitting, and acted like the slightest pressure would pop him open like an overfilled waterskin. 

...Yet, there was a slight bit of give under his palm. Not a lot, but just enough to make him think that perhaps Jaskier wasn’t as full as he was letting on. Would he risk it…?

Jaskier’s hand suddenly found itself pressing the inside of Geralt’s thigh, snapping him out of his trance. He let his hand wander upwards, until he was practically pawing at the weapon straining against the sheath of Geralt’s pants. “Pleeeease…?” he pleaded, eyes wide. 

Geralt sighed, and moved the other man’s hand away. He knew just how to look at him to make him crack. “Fine, but you have to eat it all.”

Jaskier took the bag, and began to lazily munch on a few handfuls of the mix. As Geralt rubbed, he could hear the subtle crunches and cracks of the cashews between his teeth, every single smack of his glossy lips, and much to his delight, the pitiful noises of pain and pleasure coming from him every time he worked his fingers into a delicate spot on the bard’s belly.

After what felt like an eternity, the bag, empty, was tossed aside. Jaskier let out as deep a sigh as he could with his stomach so packed, and looked up to Geralt once more. The unholy hold Jaskier’s belly had on his eyes suddenly lifted, and he finally looked to the bard.

Geralt revelled in the completely debauched look on Jaskier’s face. He was flushed. He was panting a little. His eyes were starting to droop as entirely too much food and too much alcohol grabbed a hold on him.

“Mm… Geralt,” Jaskier muttered. He tried to shift up towards the witcher, but grunted as a stabbing pain ran through his overtaxed stomach. He placed a hand on the side of the tight curve to soothe it.

“Hmm?”

“...You…” He trailed off as he yawned wide. “You better fuck me now if you want to tonight. I feel like I’m about to conk out any second now…”

The older man nodded. “Alright. Do you think you can make it to the tent?” 

Jaskier looked over the log he had called a pillow for the last hour or so. The tent was about ten feet away, but it felt like a mile in his condition. He looked back to Geralt, and once again broke out those puppydog eyes. “...Carry me?”

“I think you can make it.”

Jaskier crossed his arms and huffed. “I ‘can make it’? Is that what you’re going to tell me when you’ve fattened me up to the size of a hog and need help getting around? I don’t think you’ve realized what you’ve gotten yourself into, master witcher,” he said with a coy smile. For someone packed full to bursting, he still had enough room for all the hot air inside him. 

His air of confidence was quickly blown away, however, when the hand on his belly suddenly felt a thousand times heavier. Geralt had pressed down a little. “I know what I’ve gotten myself into,” he practically growled.  _ “Do you, bard?” _

Jaskier quickly decided to take stock of the situation. That low, growly voice? Check. Those piercing, amber cat-like eyes? Check. That grin that could curdle milk on the spot? Check. That raging erection not two feet from his face?  _ Double check. _ Geralt wanted to play. Jaskier smiled, then huffed again.

“If… if I  _ have _ to…” he murmured, feigning defeat. He could  _ probably _ make it.  _ Probably. _

Geralt stood, towering above the bard and looking down at him with a smug, shit-eating grin. “I’ll be waiting. Don’t take too long now.”

And with that, the witcher strode over and ducked into the tent. The dim glow from a lit candle illuminated the inside of the tent, and Jaskier watched quietly as Geralt’s silhouette disrobed. 

_ Okay, _ he thought, turning back to himself.  _ It’s not that far. I can make it. I have to. _

His eyes fell on that rounded curve of flesh sticking up from his middle, still tight and taut. He took a strained, shaking breath, and very carefully wiggled his hands under his back. Slowly, he pushed himself up, grunting a bit at the effort. 

Finally, he managed to get into a seated position, and with a few more audible grunts (ones that he was sure Geralt could hear and was drinking in like fine wine) made it to his feet. Gravity seemed to shift around him suddenly, as all the weight in his stomach pulled forward on him, forcing him to slump a bit. He was too afraid to try and stand up straight, lest his skin rip like cheap cloth.

He wrapped his hands under his belly as he stumbled (he was beginning to regret drinking that alcohol) towards the safe-haven, where the witcher --  _ his  _ witcher, was patiently waiting. It didn’t sag forward as he’d expected. Instead, it stuck straight out, a true testament to how crammed full he was, and he shuddered as his exposed skin grew colder the further from the fire he got.

About two or three minutes later, Jaskier burst through the flap of the tent, nearly crawling in on all fours and panting. He collapsed on the spot, sinking down into the warm, soft pile of blankets and furs that had been spread on the ground on his side. He curled up around his stuffed tummy with a little groan.

There was movement from beside him, and he peered over his shoulder.

In the dim light from the candle at the end of the tent, he could only make out Geralt’s stunning eyes and his chiseled, hairy chest, littered with scars from battles long passed. As Jaskier let out a tiny hiccup (all the movement had knocked something loose,) those strong, calloused hands tousled his brunette locks. 

“I knew you could do it,” came the low rumble from the witcher. His hand moved down to caress the bard’s face. Jaskier leaned into it, his eyes fluttering shut as Geralt stroked his thumb over the red spots on his cheek. Whether it was from the cold, the effort of getting in, or the heat of the moment, he couldn’t tell. 

“...You’ll… You’ll have to... “ Jaskier was still a bit out of breath, and the fact that his mind was begging for sleep now didn’t help. He made a wide gesture to his body. “...Clothes?”

The tent became a whirlwind of fancy silk clothes and woolen undergarments as Geralt tore the clothes off the bard, tossing them to the side with reckless abandon. As he ripped away Jaskier’s underwear, his cock sprung free, rigid and pressing up against the underside of his swollen belly. Jaskier moaned into his hands as sensitive skin made contact with sensitive skin, and threw his head back a little bit. 

“Hmm. I think you like this more than you let on…” said Geralt as he suddenly grabbed his companion’s stiff cock and ran a thumb along the bottom of it. It took everything Jaskier had to keep himself together and not cum then and there. 

“...I-I may have…  _ ah!  _ P-played it down, a l-little,” he said, bucking up as best he could when he was weighed down so much into the witcher’s hand. When he did, Geralt suddenly pulled away, causing him to whimper in need.

“Please…”

Jaskier still hadn’t quite adjusted to the darkness yet, but if he had, he would have been able to see how that one whimper had sent electricity straight to Geralt’s cock. He had been hard since Jaskier had started on the fourth squirrel, but now it was becoming an annoying, almost  _ painful _ want. He decided that he could wait no longer.

Just as his eyes adjusted, Jaskier saw Geralt’s hands go down beneath his hips, and lift him off the ground waist first. Jaskier grunted once again as his belly was forced to stretch more, and he began to whimper uncontrollably as Geralt turned him over to rest his knees on the cot. He stayed on his hands and knees, back dipping down and forcing his legs apart more due to his belly.

He heard Geralt spit, and then there was a pleasant popping noise as the first of what would surely be more fingers was suddenly forced inside of him. The noise he made was inhuman as Geralt began to gently massage that tight ring of muscle. When the second one went in, he lost all tension in his arms, and collapsed down on his elbows, face pressed against the blanket as his cock strained.

The third and fourth went in, and Geralt had been spreading him open for a while when Jaskier finally couldn’t take the teasing any longer. “Fuck… just… just do it already!” he shouted, desperate for some stimulation beyond.

“Couldn’t agree more,” was the only warning Jaskier got before Geralt forced his weapon into a sheath a few sizes too small. He placed a hand on the small of Jaskier’s back as he braced himself, and the smaller man felt the cool, familiar sensation of the oil they used for just such an occasion drip down from it. 

Geralt tried to go in slow, he really did, but the heat from Jaskier’s body and the way his belly staggered with every shuddering moan broke all willpower he had. He made it about halfway before ramming into the bard without warning, causing a stifled gasp to be brought forth from him. Geralt didn’t even notice the animalistic grunts coming out of himself.

Jaskier had never felt so completely  _ full _ in his life. Not just from having enough food for three people crammed inside of him, but also from the girth inside of him that felt as though it could split him in two. It was painful, yes, but a searingly hot pain that made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand on end. They only rested when he felt Geralt’s warm and wet breath on him.

All Jaskier could do was lay there and moan and gasp and groan and (embarrassingly, he’d later admit) let out little burps. The repetitive thrusts that hit right up against that sensitive spot deep inside him caused even more gas to be knocked loose from him, and he turned a particularly pleasant shade of pink when a startling loud belch came out of him.

“S-sorry!” he managed to stutter out. Geralt didn’t seem to care. He just kept going at it, digging his nails in deeper into the tender skin on Jaskier’s hips. 

As Geralt picked up the pace, he let one of his hands slip down around Jaskier’s belly and grab at him. He began jerking him off in tandem with his thrusts, and finally, it was time for something to give.

Jaskier let out a shriek as an earth-shattering orgasm shot through him. He thrashed, and then the world became a blur around him. He came hard, shuddering through gasps as he painted Geralt’s hand, the blanket beneath him, and the underside of his heaving belly white with his seed. His muscles tensed and untensed rapidly, the deep waters of euphoria muting the grunts behind him as Geralt came as well. As his walls fluttered around the mass that felt entirely too big to be in his body, he felt the witcher still as he emptied all he had into him. Finally, Geralt pulled out, and Jaskier collapsed once again, quickly rolling to his side and crossing his legs to keep all that the witcher had pumped into him inside.

Geralt landed with a thud next to him, still panting. An arm was draped protectively over Jaskier’s chest. As they drank in the heat and the heavy scent of sex, Geralt finally spoke up, just before Jaskier lost consciousness.

“So,” he said. “What would you like for breakfast?”


End file.
